


Mad Love

by handful_ofdust



Category: Frankenstein (Hammer), The Curse of Frankenstein (1957)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:09:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2349542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handful_ofdust/pseuds/handful_ofdust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Threesomes solve (almost) everything, even where Victor Frankenstein is concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad Love

Though she naturally can't see what's causing it, not in fullest detail, Elizabeth watches her husband wince—his usual icy calm punctured, at least momentarily—and finds herself impressed, as well as aroused. _Does it hurt?_ She hears Paul ask, half-solicitous, half-automatic; the man can barely step on a spider without apologizing, and it's one of his more lovable qualities. But Victor just snaps back: _What do you think, you buffoon? You've the same training I have, ostensibly..._

  
( _And everything I know I learnt from you, after all._ )

  
Because: They know each other so well, better than she will ever know either. Were she another sort of woman, it would make her jealous.

  
 _This is the least you owe me, Victor,_ Paul says, after a moment—and now Elizabeth draws her own breath, without meaning to, at the sight of how large he looms over Victor's neatly muscled shoulder; he's so well-learnt the trick of slumping to make himself seem smaller, long ago and most especially in Victor's ramrod-straight company, that whenever he discards it it's a sort of double shock, as much to others as (probably) to him. _The very least, you devious damn popinjay, you infinitely contrary genius-fool. Now...take your medicine, and like it._

  
Another wince, sweat starting at his temples, but Victor keeps his voice light, drawling. For he can take a great deal of pain, her husband—more than one might think, to look at him, and _almost_ as much as he can deal out, in return.

  
_Oh, well. If you put it that way—_

_  
I do._

_  
Hnh. And how long have you wanted this, exactly? Since we first made our acquaintance?_

_  
At least. But I forebore, because...fool that I am...I didn't want to hurt you._

_  
Oh, Paul: And I a mere lad of fifteen, virtually a child._

  
Paul huffs a bitter groan, straining closer, in a way that makes them both jump. _Don't make me laugh, Frankenstein! You were born ancient, your brain a weapon; to call yourself thus would be an insult to real children, as inaccurate as to call snakelings poisonless._

_  
Did you come here to write poetry, Herr Krempe?_

_  
You—tell ME, Herr Baron._

  
Here Paul does something that makes Victor pant and give way entirely, flopping boneless with his fine, upswept forehead nestled straight into the centre of her cleavage, eyes screwed tight against the breaking wave; she folds him in and lets him suckle first at one breast, then the other, pulling hard enough to distract himself—feels his predator's teeth, the invisible stubble of his cheeks, tongue hot and insistent. And _God,_ how she loves him best this way, poised right on the ragged edge of control's complete loss, a creeping flush rouging those dangerous cheekbones. The most human she's ever seen him.

  
His hard prick strains against her slickness, open and aching already, waiting—not patiently, as such—for him to remember she's there. Thinking: _Who was it mothered you, ever—some buxom girl in a maid's uniform, content to let you do as you pleased, like poor Justine? And who fathered you, for the same matter, that you decided to hire your own—one you could bully, or even fire, if the fancy took you?_

_  
My dear husband, you who've made us fugitives everywhere we've tried to lay our heads thus far, and all because you can't keep away from graveyards or the operating table. My small-souled genius, never so happy as when you're wreathed in sparks and bloody to the wrists, your boutonniere stinking of carrion and ozone._

  
But: _Shall we try for another heir, my darling?_ She murmurs in his ear, drawing a hiss. And twines him so close, before he can protest further, that she can almost feel her other lover's deep-buried prick sliding in next to his, an added phantom pain-pleasure inside her. _Just to secure the legacy, you understand; that's assuming you need a merely practical reason, in order to make yourself perform—a challenge, an experiment. For you are such a scientist, after all..._

  
He opens his mouth wide, gathering bitter words of “husbandly” chastisement. But she chokes that off at the root with a lunge, teeth out, and chews on his tongue 'til they're entirely too overborne to speak further, even if current lack of breath would allow for it. Projecting, firmly, as she does: _You talk too much entirely, Herr Baron-Doctor, by far. I'm sure Paul would agree._

  
Paul, hunched and gasping now, hammering into Victor from behind with both big hands leaving fingerprint bruises on his bony hips; Elizabeth, levering herself up by Victor's biceps to grind that pearlescent treasure-box he himself mapped out for her on their wedding night—first clinically then demonstratively, those lean, clever hands of his casually remaking her, bestowing an entirely selfish gift which keeps on giving, for them both—into his pelvic ridge 'til she, too, starts to shake.

  
And Victor, shuddering between them, surrendering the last of his defences only at physiological gunpoint—the same stubborn way he barely suffers himself to eat, or sleep, when the profane creative fit is on him. Dapper, heartless Frankenstein, the self-elected New Prometheus of a technomantic age, finally pushed far enough to be unable to completely muffle his own whine into her mouth, that groan Paul's ministrations pull from him. Sandwiched in this complicated, double-headed love he both resents and feeds on, these impulses he undeniably shares yet fights with every weapon at his disposal, the very same way he wrestles daily with mortality, necrosis, _God..._

  
Nature will never be Victor's friend, Elizabeth knows, not entirely—too unpredictable, too untamed. But perhaps today, in this instant of mutual climax, the _thing itself_ will be enough to keep him momentarily snared and still, if never satisfied. Perhaps he will actually consent to be held, cradled, nuzzled, without taking offense or resorting to mockery; perhaps he will drift off without realizing, snoring slightly, while she and Paul smile wearily at each other over his head. Perhaps, next time, they won't even have to resort to chloroform or blackmail to extract his marital duty from him.

  
Today, however, the afterglow lasts only a bare handful of seconds before the baby starts to cry, his shrieks ear-splitting even through the nursery's walls. To which Elizabeth feels Victor mutter, into her clavicle: _Fosterage has much to recommend it as an institution, since abortion was apparently out of the question, even with two physicians on hand—_

  
Paul raps the back of that lofty cranium, sharply: Really, Victor! And: _They're your estates, not mine, except by marriage,_ Elizabeth replies, hardly insulted, _so you may want to return someday, once the government changes. Thus making a bit of inconvenient noise a small price to pay indeed, to keep your ancient and oh-so-noble name alive..._

_  
Yes, yes. You are ever solicitous, my love._

_  
True enough. Which is why you should reward me for my great care of you, especially considering the hardships I've suffered, along the way. Don't you think? Me and Paul, both._

  
Such blue eyes, so clear and sharp and almost completely empty of anything but bad thoughts hidden beneath the sheerest of social masks. Victor narrows them at her, deliberately conjuring artificial smile-lines as though she were any patient in his waiting-room, and the very ridiculousness of it is enough to draw a snicker—betrayed by anatomy yet once again, this sudden endorphin-rush leaving her too slack and body-happy to care how baldly she's being manipulated, even if it makes Paul (who's had far more time to become disenchanted with this sort of nonsense) snort like a disgruntled horse and roll temporarily free of them both, at least in body.

  
This charming monster-maker, so blithely fatal; he will pull them all down with him, one day, if she and Paul aren't careful. Or even, probably, if they are.

  
 _But I thought I already had,_ Victor Frankenstein tells his wife, guilefully “guileless”, as his disapproving tutor-turned-”friend”'s weight crushes the wet, tangled sheets 'round them all like a snare. And makes her laugh, outright, at her own tragedy.

  
 _It could be worse,_ she knows; undeniably, undebatably. The which realization, in turn, makes her laugh all the harder.

  
THE END


End file.
